Chapter 48

Five or six days after this Mr. Lawrence paid us the honour of a
call; and when he and I were alone together - which I contrived as
soon as possible by bringing him out to look at my cornstacks - he
showed me another letter from his sister. This one he was quite
willing to submit to my longing gaze; he thought, I suppose, it
would do me good. The only answer it gave to my message was this:-

'Mr. Markham is at liberty to make such revelations concerning me
as he judges necessary. He will know that I should wish but little
to be said on the subject. I hope he is well; but tell him he must
not think of me.'

I can give you a few extracts from the rest of the letter, for I
was permitted to keep this also - perhaps, as an antidote to all
pernicious hopes and fancies.

* * * * *

He is decidedly better, but very low from the depressing effects of
his severe illness and the strict regimen he is obliged to observe
- so opposite to all his previous habits. It is deplorable to see
how completely his past life has degenerated his once noble
constitution, and vitiated the whole system of his organization.
But the doctor says he may now be considered out of danger, if he
will only continue to observe the necessary restrictions. Some
stimulating cordials he must have, but they should be judiciously
diluted and sparingly used; and I find it very difficult to keep
him to this. At first, his extreme dread of death rendered the
task an easy one; but in proportion as he feels his acute suffering
abating, and sees the danger receding, the more intractable he
becomes. Now, also, his appetite for food is beginning to return;
and here, too, his long habits of self-indulgence are greatly
against him. I watch and restrain him as well as I can, and often
get bitterly abused for my rigid severity; and sometimes he
contrives to elude my vigilance, and sometimes acts in opposition
to my will. But he is now so completely reconciled to my
attendance in general that he is never satisfied when I am not by
his side. I am obliged to be a little stiff with him sometimes, or
he would make a complete slave of me; and I know it would be
unpardonable weakness to give up all other interests for him. I
have the servants to overlook, and my little Arthur to attend to, -
and my own health too, all of which would be entirely neglected
were I to satisfy his exorbitant demands. I do not generally sit
up at night, for I think the nurse who has made it her business is
better qualified for such undertakings than I am; - but still, an
unbroken night's rest is what I but seldom enjoy, and never can
venture to reckon upon; for my patient makes no scruple of calling
me up at an hour when his wants or his fancies require my presence.
But he is manifestly afraid of my displeasure; and if at one time
he tries my patience by his unreasonable exactions, and fretful
complaints and reproaches, at another he depresses me by his abject
submission and deprecatory self-abasement when he fears he has gone
too far. But all this I can readily pardon; I know it is chiefly
the result of his enfeebled frame and disordered nerves. What
annoys me the most, is his occasional attempts at affectionate
fondness that I can neither credit nor return; not that I hate him:
his sufferings and my own laborious care have given him some claim
to my regard - to my affection even, if he would only be quiet and
sincere, and content to let things remain as they are; but the more
he tries to conciliate me, the more I shrink from him and from the
future.

'Helen, what do you mean to do when I get well?' he asked this
morning. 'Will you run away again?'

'It entirely depends upon your own conduct.'

'Oh, I'll be very good.'

'But if I find it necessary to leave you, Arthur, I shall not "run
away": you know I have your own promise that I may go whenever I
please, and take my son with me.'

'Oh, but you shall have no cause.' And then followed a variety of
professions, which I rather coldly checked.

'Will you not forgive me, then?' said he.

'Yes, - I have forgiven you: but I know you cannot love me as you
once did - and I should be very sorry if you were to, for I could
not pretend to return it: so let us drop the subject, and never
recur to it again. By what I have done for you, you may judge of
what I will do - if it be not incompatible with the higher duty I
owe to my son (higher, because he never forfeited his claims, and
because I hope to do more good to him than I can ever do to you);
and if you wish me to feel kindly towards you, it is deeds not
words which must purchase my affection and esteem.'

His sole reply to this was a slight grimace, and a scarcely
perceptible shrug. Alas, unhappy man! words, with him, are so much
cheaper than deeds; it was as if I had said, 'Pounds, not pence,
must buy the article you want.' And then he sighed a querulous,
self-commiserating sigh, as if in pure regret that he, the loved
and courted of so many worshippers, should be now abandoned to the
mercy of a harsh, exacting, cold-hearted woman like that, and even
glad of what kindness she chose to bestow.

'It's a pity, isn't it?' said I; and whether I rightly divined his
musings or not, the observation chimed in with his thoughts, for he
answered - 'It can't be helped,' with a rueful smile at my
penetration.

* * * * *

I have I seen Esther Hargrave twice. She is a charming creature,
but her blithe spirit is almost broken, and her sweet temper almost
spoiled, by the still unremitting persecutions of her mother in
behalf of her rejected suitor - not violent, but wearisome and
unremitting like a continual dropping. The unnatural parent seems
determined to make her daughter's life a burden, if she will not
yield to her desires.

'Mamma does all she can,' said she, 'to make me feel myself a
burden and incumbrance to the family, and the most ungrateful,
selfish, and undutiful daughter that ever was born; and Walter,
too, is as stern and cold and haughty as if he hated me outright.
I believe I should have yielded at once if I had known, from the
beginning, how much resistance would have cost me; but now, for
very obstinacy's sake, I will stand out!'

'A bad motive for a good resolve,' I answered. 'But, however, I
know you have better motives, really, for your perseverance: and I
counsel you to keep them still in view.'

'Trust me I will. I threaten mamma sometimes that I'll run away,
and disgrace the family by earning my own livelihood, if she
torments me any more; and then that frightens her a little. But I
will do it, in good earnest, if they don't mind.'

'Be quiet and patient a while,' said I, 'and better times will
come.'

Poor girl! I wish somebody that was worthy to possess her would
come and take her away - don't you, Frederick?

* * * * *

If the perusal of this letter filled me with dismay for Helen's
future life and mine, there was one great source of consolation:
it was now in my power to clear her name from every foul aspersion.
The Millwards and the Wilsons should see with their own eyes the
bright sun bursting from the cloud - and they should be scorched
and dazzled by its beams; - and my own friends too should see it -
they whose suspicions had been such gall and wormwood to my soul.
To effect this I had only to drop the seed into the ground, and it
would soon become a stately, branching herb: a few words to my
mother and sister, I knew, would suffice to spread the news
throughout the whole neighbourhood, without any further exertion on
my part.

Rose was delighted; and as soon as I had told her all I thought
proper - which was all I affected to know - she flew with alacrity
to put on her bonnet and shawl, and hasten to carry the glad
tidings to the Millwards and Wilsons - glad tidings, I suspect, to
none but herself and Mary Millward - that steady, sensible girl,
whose sterling worth had been so quickly perceived and duly valued
by the supposed Mrs. Graham, in spite of her plain outside; and
who, on her part, had been better able to see and appreciate that
lady's true character and qualities than the brightest genius among
them.

As I may never have occasion to mention her again, I may as well
tell you here that she was at this time privately engaged to
Richard Wilson - a secret, I believe, to every one but themselves.
That worthy student was now at Cambridge, where his most exemplary
conduct and his diligent perseverance in the pursuit of learning
carried him safely through, and eventually brought him with hard-
earned honours, and an untarnished reputation, to the close of his
collegiate career. In due time he became Mr. Millward's first and
only curate - for that gentleman's declining years forced him at
last to acknowledge that the duties of his extensive parish were a
little too much for those vaunted energies which he was wont to
boast over his younger and less active brethren of the cloth. This
was what the patient, faithful lovers had privately planned and
quietly waited for years ago; and in due time they were united, to
the astonishment of the little world they lived in, that had long
since declared them both born to single blessedness; affirming it
impossible that the pale, retiring bookworm should ever summon
courage to seek a wife, or be able to obtain one if he did, and
equally impossible that the plain-looking, plain-dealing,
unattractive, unconciliating Miss Millward should ever find a
husband.

They still continued to live at the vicarage, the lady dividing her
time between her father, her husband, and their poor parishioners,
- and subsequently her rising family; and now that the Reverend
Michael Millward has been gathered to his fathers, full of years
and honours, the Reverend Richard Wilson has succeeded him to the
vicarage of Linden-hope, greatly to the satisfaction of its
inhabitants, who had so long tried and fully proved his merits, and
those of his excellent and well-loved partner.

If you are interested in the after fate of that lady's sister, I
can only tell you - what perhaps you have heard from another
quarter - that some twelve or thirteen years ago she relieved the
happy couple of her presence by marrying a wealthy tradesman of L-;
and I don't envy him his bargain. I fear she leads him a rather
uncomfortable life, though, happily, he is too dull to perceive the
extent of his misfortune. I have little enough to do with her
myself: we have not met for many years; but, I am well assured,
she has not yet forgotten or forgiven either her former lover, or
the lady whose superior qualities first opened his eyes to the
folly of his boyish attachment.

As for Richard Wilson's sister, she, having been wholly unable to
recapture Mr. Lawrence, or obtain any partner rich and elegant
enough to suit her ideas of what the husband of Jane Wilson ought
to be, is yet in single blessedness. Shortly after the death of
her mother she withdrew the light of her presence from Ryecote
Farm, finding it impossible any longer to endure the rough manners
and unsophisticated habits of her honest brother Robert and his
worthy wife, or the idea of being identified with such vulgar
people in the eyes of the world, and took lodgings in - the county
town, where she lived, and still lives, I suppose, in a kind of
close-fisted, cold, uncomfortable gentility, doing no good to
others, and but little to herself; spending her days in fancy-work
and scandal; referring frequently to her 'brother the vicar,' and
her 'sister, the vicar's lady,' but never to her brother the farmer
and her sister the farmer's wife; seeing as much company as she can
without too much expense, but loving no one and beloved by none -
a cold-hearted, supercilious, keenly, insidiously censorious old
maid.